General Musings, Life change

In transition

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We’ve had a bit of a wake up call.  Our happy go lucky, ‘get stuck right in’ boy has been struck with huge waves of homesickness.  Through the body shakes and tears I listen to the sobbing distress my heart breaking as I cuddle him tight.  This is his journey, I cannot ignore it or make light of his feelings, this is a time for reassurance, trust, love.  Together we acknowledge these feelings and sensations are normal and that ‘tears out’ rather than ‘sadness in’ is a healthier way to manage.  I am learning that I cannot move him on from his missings towards his forward hopes too quickly. Together we acknowledge just what and more importantly for him, who, he has left behind.  Then we speak of the good times and the memories that make us both laugh.  I listen to the talk of what is missing or wrong with where we are before I steer the conversation towards what we’re going to do tomorrow and what he hopes to do this year.  Sometimes,  this cycle is repeated twice, three times before the sobbing stops.  Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man.  I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking.  It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened.  This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter.  I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being.  That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience.  These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.

Over the summer I’ve had girlfriends deal with children who did not achieve the exam results they hoped for, or school places where they would have contributed far more than mere academic achievement.  I firmly believe that when a child learns disappointment and has to manage the accompanying peer group pressure, it’s an opportunity to develop backbone, drive and stamina. A life shaping opportunity.  Those who sail on through, whether by hard work, chance or luck miss out somehow.

Learned through 30 years of  work, I know skills and knowledge can be taught and passed on but if aptitude and attitude is missing then there is little hope of further development or progression.  Attitude and aptitude are forged in times of crisis, disappointment, hurt. How you choose in the moment, to deal with upset, trauma and fear says a lot about your personality and resilience.  As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and  talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening –  not judging, shouting nor fixing.  By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.

Our lives consist of memories and stories.  Great times and sad times. Joys and disappointments.  What we choose to learn and remember and how we choose to deal with any life situation is what shapes our very humanness.  In nurturing my growing boy-man, riding the waves of his homesickness with him, I’m painfully casting my tiger mummy skin.

We are both in transition.

 

General Musings, Life change

Full circle

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We’ve now been on the island for nearly 6 weeks, experiencing crop over carnival, first days at work and school, our first tropical storm and coordinating efforts to support those devastated by hurricane Irma.  It’s not been dull.

Life here is not the chocolate box pictures of the colourful chattel houses, the palm fringed beaches, the friendly welcoming service orientated locals.  This is not the real Barbados, these images are tourist Barbados.  A deception sustained for short bursts of time – enough time for visitors to get off and back on the plane.  Real Barbados is much more complex and far more interesting.  An island currently experiencing a seismic shift in its culture and attitudes, where hard decisions need to be made to create sustainable changes so as to reinvigorate a flagging economy and shift antiquated working practices.

The  first time I came to this island, many moons ago, was in the company of my boyfriend of the time – a  Barbadian boy who had flown to London to run away from the shadow of his successful twin brothers and the family name. He took me back home to meet his family and we lived like chirpy locals for a few weeks.  He drove his borrowed family car like a recklessly blind crazy boy,  we devoured flying fish, plantain, macaroni pie, chicken roti, baked breadfruit, rice and peas, in all the local spots.  We drank rum punch on the Jolly Roger even though I was teetotal and could barely stand at the end of the day.  It was here I had my first encounter with flying cockroaches who seemed to wait until I was in the shower before they would helicopter in and attempt to land in my hair  ( I still go weak kneed when I see one).  And it was here I was first bitten by mosquitos and directly applied the juice from the aloe plant to the bite.  Flying to Barbados was the first time I had been on a plane, the first time I had been out of the UK.

Although this relationship didn’t last, it gave birth to an enduring deep friendship.  Through the then boyfriend I met Jen, another Barbadian living in London.  A vivacious, intelligent,funny, bright and beautiful woman, we bonded straight away and have subsequently seen each other through many life traumas, joys and excitements.  I was delighted when Jenny agreed to be Roscoe’s Godmother and he loves her like his second Mummy.  And as a result of her gentle Bajan lilt and his relationship with her, he can decipher a lot of what is being said to him in town today.

When Craig was private secretary to David Triesman, Minister for Africa, Latin America and the Caribbean, we had the opportunity to join him at the end of one of his interminable trips away.  So I brought an 18 month old Roscoe on his first long distance plane trip,  to meet his Daddy in …Barbados.   It was in Barbados that Roscoe had his first experience of the sea, swimming with turtles in an ocean so clear that you could see each one bobbing and diving along side his chubby little toddler legs.  It was at the beach by the Hilton Barbados that he first stuck his toes into soft warm sand and paddled waist deep in the warm salty sea water.  It was Barbados that helped the sea seduce my child, where he first awkwardly jiggled his hips to soca music and where he first felt sun so hot that his skin now goes berry brown instead of Scottish raspberry red.

It seems obvious that we are meant to be here now; where in times of  crisis, Craig’s calm, clear and decisive decision-making provides stability, direction and stewardship; where my change skills and knowledge will help make a difference to people and organisations keen to do things differently; where our son will shift from boy to young man.

Barbados is threaded into our family story, where we take our past and weave it into our present. It’s a lesson that change is all about perception.  If we are open to learnings, connections and patterns, to growth and flow then what seems like big stuff actually turns out to be a continuation of our evolutionary story . Perhaps life is not about circles but adaptive figures of eights.

General Musings, Life change

A simple question, really.

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I’m tucked inside with the AC on full blast, looking out at the sun shadows cast from the large palm trees on the veranda.  Meanwhile Monty dog is ‘spatchcock golden retriever’ on the kitchen floor doing his best impression of a breathing fur rug, Roscoe is currently hanging out on a beach with a bunch of Bajan 16 year- old babes and Craig is busy being important somewhere in town.

Its been quite a few months to get to this point.  in truth, its been quite a few years and I’m thankful to the Universe for creating this opportunity for us to heal and grow as a family unit again.

But the shiny outside does not portray the learnings going on inside.

It’s very, very odd to be here as the wife/Mother/supporter of.  As a couple we have not been this way for 12 years.  Actually in truth, it’s not been this way ever before.  When we met, I’d already been in Uganda for several years  and had profitable working business relationships with the Presidents of both Uganda and Rwanda as well as being in and out of the boardrooms of several multi-national corporations based across Africa.  A few years later, we arrive back in the UK while I’m heavily pregnant with Roscoe,   6 months on, I’m in Vodafone forging a revised UK corporate career which keeps me busy for the next decade.

Fast forward almost 13 years and I find myself with dust on the floor, beds which need changing and thinking about what to cook for dinner.  The pile of ironing seems to grow by looking at it and the dark coloured faux- wood furniture so beloved of any British government property, seems to mark when any insect, and there are many, many insects here, land upon it.  I’m finding out that keeping house is harder in so many ways than going out to work.  I’m also discovering that my perfectionist tendencies manifest large on a home which is entirely covered  in white tiles and white walls.  And having arrived in hurricane season to a garden which can quickly resemble a mud pit with a 6 month old puppy and a boy who would live in sand and sea if he could, I’m fighting a losing battle in trying to keep the darned place semi-clean. I’ve decided that hiring someone to come in twice a week is the only way I’m going to stay slightly sane.

 

For my other, much larger, battle is with myself.  Forging a different identity from the one I have  held onto for all my working adult life, is tricky.  It’s hard not to qualify my sense of self when being introduced to new people.   What is my self now?  And I realise in my old life how often I defined myself by what I do.  And now I am open-skinned-bare and I’ve an introductory 10 seconds to show up and be who I am.

It strikes me that who and how rather than what and when defines the difference between leaders and managers.  A leader sets the parameters of the task and who is responsible.  A manager decides how the  task is done.  Craig and I often argue when I delegate the task and then tell him how I want it done.  And he is right to push back.   I realise it’s often my perfectionist OCD which  pulls me right back into manager mode.  When you meet Senior leaders or Presidents, they rarely introduce themselves by their title or explain what they do.  They use their names and let it settle.  A title is everything and nothing. What counts  and demonstrates the mark of the wo/man are their behaviours and actions.  Words come easy but it’s their meaning and associated results which make the difference.

Today I met a senior representative of Unicef at her rather palatial home tucked away in a leafy exclusive enclave of Bridgetown.  She gives me her card which states her name and written underneath is ‘A representative of Unicef’.   This rather egalitarian approach really appeals to me and my transforming sense of identity.

I know I need to get comfortable in the skin I’m in.  Not finding my role yet, or a title, doesn’t change who I am.  I know I can turn up to official functions and be the “wife of”, or go to the school and be the “Mother of” and the changing of hats to facilitate and integrate is a healthy way of being part of the community.

But beyond the hats, the clothes, the image, the plastered on smiley face, lies a big question with an answer somewhere close but elusive.  Who am I now?

Ask yourself this question.

Who are you?

It’s  a much bigger question than “what do you do?”  A much more meaningful question.

Perhaps I will start asking this while making the obligatory small talk at the official functions. Perhaps the answers I hear will help me clarify my own answer.

Perhaps you can help me with your answer….

 

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair—
(Even as you or I!)

Rudyard Kipling, The Vampire, 1897

Changes created by the cancer adventure, General Musings, Life change

Stuff and things

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When I don’t write out my thoughts and ideas,  they live in my head and sometimes grow to scarily gargantuan bubbles of nonsense which pop! when I eventually sit at the keyboard.

The concept of ideas coming to me, like invisible atoms, all joining up for a transient, coalescent moment is both comforting and frustrating.  My subconscious is telling me to make time.  I need to pay more attention.

I’ve been lost in the land of doing for the past 3 months. In just over a week, we board a plane to start our 4 year Caribbean adventure and I’ve been head buried; organising, sorting and packing up our UK life and preparing everyone for the sunshine and showers of the next chapter.  Time, which seemed so plentiful when we first heard this news, is now travelling at warp speed.  People I wanted to see, places I wanted to go, things I wanted to do, well it just won’t happen, not for now anyway.

On the bright side, I’m not gone too long as I need to return to the UK on a regular basis to see the Maxillofacial consultant.  My two-year cancer anniversary looms in December and statistically, if you chose to believe such numbers, the chance of a recurrence drops dramatically after this point.  I’m quietly, mentally counting down to my visit on December 6 and trying to manage my cortisol levels as I singularly manage our move.

Everything in our home requires a decision.  It goes to Barbados.  It goes into store. It goes out.  I have removed a decision point by the packers being in so many items have already gone.  I’m struck at how much stuff and how still attached to stuff I am.  This move is teaching me to really begin to practice letting go. I’m hoping in 4 years time I’ll  be kicking myself for still hoarding all the bits and pieces that have already gone into store and to enjoy the process of throwing most of it away.


The far-too-early snuffed life force of Charlie Rees gives me daily perspective when all of my plans, preparations and activities seem out of control.   I’m grateful to be here each day, to be stressing about the nonsense of items which provide rich memories of people and places, of life and love.  I’m blessed to enjoy paintings and music, to warble-sing to good-time tunes, to walk uninterrupted across miles of verdant countryside with the dog pulling at my company, to uproariously laugh with my increasingly smart and funny Roscoe, to spend time with my fabulous girlfriends.  I don’t take any of this for granted.  Not any more.

Charlie gave me this gift and I remember and thank her daily for it.

The gift of knowing the difference between the stuff of life and a life of stuff.

Changes created by the cancer adventure, General Musings

The ones that got away

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So I was in the midst of a post about loss and belonging which I thought I’d finish today and then I woke up to yet another terrorist incident in London Bridge.  And this old post, in less than 24 hours, seems oddly out of date.  No one can make sense of what is happening in our world, it seems to be tilting on its axis.  And words written one day don’t translate the next.  Or in case of Trump,  words of bile and hate tweeted in one second, seem petty and deliberately cruel and divisive when there is a call for a more collective coming together, led by London’s Muslim mayor, Sadiq Khan.

Of course the joker of the free world will not tune into the spirit of what is happening in the UK tonight.  It does not suit his purpose to bring religions, tribes, people together, with the sole purpose of love for humanity.  The people in Manchester and London who  turn out in their thousands, stand in brave defiance of any act of terrorism.  They choose to not be cowed in the face of mad extremism. They turn up, young and old, girls and boys, men, women and gender neutral, gay, straight.  Christian’s, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus. Atheists   –  no matter how they define themselves – they stand together across our country.  Remarkably so many enjoying the concert in Manchester tonight are the ones who got away two weeks ago.

For survivors, after the initial shock, there comes confusion and anger, fear, relief and a heightened sense of emotion, of aliveness and purpose.  These emotions will crash together for a long time  so you live in a sea of swirling sickness.  A bringing together is cathartic, a chance to share the collective grief, relief and guilt.  Why them, not me?  What is the meaning of this? How can I live my life with greater purpose?  How can I learn and grow from this experience?  How do I rejoice in this greater connection?

Three weeks ago I lost a mentoree.  I met Charlie last October, shortly after her mouth cancer diagnosis.  A beautiful, feisty, single Mum, her 12 year old son, Tyler, would come and hang out and play X-box with Roscoe as Charlie and I holed up and I talked her off the ledge and towards her operation and recovery.  We discussed how she was going to raise awareness of mouth cancer and decided on vlogging  as Charlie’s personality and looks made her a powerful advocate for people to stop and pay attention.

That first night, Charlie showed me her cancer and talked a lot about death and her fears for Tyler’s future.  Over the course of the following weeks it was a subject she would return to and I, who never considered the possibility when given my own diagnosis,  would talk her round and get her to look long forward.

Only Charlie proved me wrong.  Despite everything; her fierce love for her son, her advocacy, the sheer strength and will of those family and friends who held her, comforted her and challenged her to keep on, her body gave up and she died early on Saturday morning.

And I am bobbing in the stormy sea of survivor’s guilt.  There’s no sense to be made.  Sometimes you can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, sometimes it is just your time.  And for those of us left behind,  we need to find the words through the guilt and fear, the relief and gratitude, to explain how we feel and what we’re thinking and to reach out for help, support and love.

And those living with and loving the ones who are fortunate enough to have got away, please remember healing takes time and happens in many forms.  The single most powerful thing you can do is put your own judgement and fear to one side and just listen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life change, Metaphors and Stories

Commitment

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It’s our wedding anniversary today.  And for the second year running, I remember and give Craig a card (nothing too soppy though – we’re not that kind of couple!).

We’re spending the day with dear friends who were around when we met in Kampala and who also credit Uganda as their ‘coming together’ place.  It’s lovely to reminisce and catch up  –  and several times today I hear stories and remember memories I’d forgotten but which come flooding back in full colour as more detail is added.   This jolting of recall is a magical anniversary gift.    Taking us all back to what feels like simpler days.  Those were the days which were just about us, no complication of children, mortgages, pets or juggling life.  As I reflect, I’m grateful that I waited for Craig.  I kissed princes, frogs and a few others, along the way but by the time I said “I do”, I was ready.

It’s very hard to know if you should ever tell a loved one that they are making a wrong decision.  Craig’s Mum had no such compunction and she made her feelings very clear about his choice of life partner.  In fact on our wedding day, the only words she uttered in my direction were to tell me to get the band to turn the sound down as she couldn’t hear herself speak to her friends!  But saying nothing is almost easier than stepping up to the plate.  So I admire May Fulton’s honesty although it’s obvious to me now that it wasn’t personal; no woman would ever have been good enough for her wee boy.

I’ve always valued honesty in my girlfriends and I’ve tried to reciprocate wherever I can.  However, I almost lost a close girlfriend by telling her she was making a mistake by saying yes to a man unworthy of her.   Even though, many years later, they’re still together, it’s not a union that could be described as happy or harmonious.  And it’s clear to me now that so many of the life choices we make are not us knowing the ‘right’ decision but are instead dictated by time and circumstance.  My Mum used to say, “if in doubt, don’t”.  I’ve lived my life with this running through my head, which may account for my multiple engagements yet only one wedding day.  Sometimes all it takes is a bit more time for the right choice to become clear.

So saying I have other dear friends who knew very quickly that they’d found their life partner.  It took us girl friends a bit longer to come to the same conclusion and I’m often reminded of my prediction that their union would not last.  Eighteen years, two children and an international relocation later, they are still very much together.  And I’m very delighted to be wearing so much egg on my face.

So while I’m basking in old memories, I think back to the day when I said yes.   I honestly don’t know the exact date; I scarcely remember our wedding anniversary – but  I do remember we first kissed on 12 July 2002 in the gardens of plot 11, Roscoe road, Kampala.    Fast forward a couple of years and we’re enjoying a lunch time picnic in the gardens of the Baha’i temple.  Despite living in Uganda for 6 years I’ve never been here and I’m sorry for not having made the trip sooner.    The entire place emanates a sense of harmonious peace and tranquillity.  Located in its own 52 acres site on Kikaaya hill, it’s about 7 km from the city centre and today the view of the city is crisp and clear, the noise and bustle seeming hundreds of miles away.  The temple itself is a nine sided building designed to represent unity of all faiths.  Its golden brick gleams in the sunlight and the green 44ft diameter dome stretches 130ft into the blue cloudless sky.   After a leisurely wander around the temple, we sit in the well manicured garden,  shaded by a large tree.  I fuss around with eats and drinks all the while thinking Craig is quietly subsumed by the serenity and peace of the place.  Below us a group of school children are listening intently to their lessons, the sound of the African lilt coming from the teaching nuns is being carried upwards in the light breeze. Craig jolts me out of my revere with a meaningful speech about there only being seven Baha’i  temples in the world.  That’s one for every continent so we’re sitting  in a most special place in Africa, a place where all faiths and beliefs come together under the larger concept of humanity.  He says some other lovely things and by the end of his discourse I’ve agreed to make a lifetime commitment and I’m wearing a stunning diamond on the 3rd finger of my left hand.  Of course we hug and kiss and then look up to face an irate nun, angrily admonishing us for such a public display of affection in a holy place.  We apologise and listen to a long lecture about the sanctity of innocence and the need to avoid encouraging the virginal young minds down the hill into wanton ‘harlotedness’

We decide not to tell her that we’ve just got engaged.  My alien bump is protruding large from my belly.

That alien bump wraps his arms around me, bringing  me back to now.  His Daddy looks up and smiles at us both.

Lifetime decisions can sometimes be made in a heartbeat.  Or they can marinade until there is a gleaming guiding light.   In my case, tapping into the inner voice of truth took some courage and blind faith.   I’m so glad I listened and said “I do”  those dozen years ago.

Happy Anniversary Craigie, here’s to our next adventure…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life change

Change from the ruf’

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We are  in a hotel room somewhere in Yorkshire.  In two hours time, we’re turning our lives upside down as we take charge of the new addition to our family, an 8 week old Golden Retriever puppy who we have decided to name Montgomery a.k.a Monty.

Monty brings order to our chaos.  There is some system and routine to our daily lives but not enough so that we feel constrained or tied.  We love our flexibility, the opportunity to decide on the spur of the moment, the toss of a coin, the text or call making a suggestion to meet.  We are not the family that books our holiday a year in advance, rather the one that pays exorbitant money to go somewhere decided at the last moment.

This kind of life is not for all.  It’s a rollercoaster of thrills and excitement, of  seize the day adventure and life stomping. Of living in the moment, being in the present.   But it also brings stress and disappointment and expense.  It takes being sick for a while to create the awareness that living this way makes me ill and unsettled and to realise it’s time to make a change.

So after a mound of reading and research into how to train and manage what’s  going to be a 65lbs animal which doesn’t talk, sheds hair daily with great abandon, which slobbers and slurps, demands food every hour,  brings in mud and dirt from every outside excursion and swims at every opportunity, I’m ready.  On the basis that I’ve already got  a tweenager demonstrating all of these characteristics, adding a dog to the mix hardly seems daunting.

 

The change Monthy brings is to our behaviour.  We can’t just jump on the train or get in the car on a whim.  A 4 hour feeding regime combined with the resulting expulsion, regulates our day.  Added to which we’re unable to spend hours on social media or in Roscoe’s case his beloved weekend treat, his X box,  as the ‘wee’ dog needs our attention, our time and love. Monty dog forces us to think ahead, to structure and plan our time.  He makes us form habitual patterns to our lives rather than the chaotic whiff of panic, last minuteness and resulting lateness which has emanated from our four walls these past years.

And I don’t think this is going to be easy.  For Craig and I this type of stress has become habitual DNA.  For Roscoe, living this way is all he’s really known.  But for this bouncy, blonde bundle to turn into a well behaved, obedient animal, we are going to have to grit our teeth and get into a consistent routine.

In return we’re going to have oodles of love and adoration and what I’m sure will be many insights to share on this blog.

 

 

Engaging people, General Musings, Life change

Magic moments

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Imagine, just for a moment, you are Brian Cullinan, chairman of PwC’s US Board and Managing Partner of PwC’s Southern California, Arizona and Nevada Market.  You’ve played a part in a really successful evening; a slight blip when the production team included a picture of a still-living producer in its ‘in-memoriam’ segment but, aside from this, everything has flowed and gone to plan, just as in rehearsals.  You are beginning to relax.  Fourth year in, you recognise the climactic moments of the show are beginning to unfold.  Its 21.03 PT and Warren Beatty strolls to the podium, opens the envelope you’ve just given him, looks confused, shows his consort and gives a half laugh.  Faye Dunaway’s response is to blurt out a complete fabrication, information which is not written on the card that Beatty is holding.

Credit: Phil McCarten/AMPAS

Beatty looks dumbfounded.   Neither of them have asked for clarification, they are both in full acting mode  This is not what the card says.  He knows it, you know it, Faye Dunaway knows it and your colleague, Martha Ruiz knows it.  For 30 seconds you are the only people in a  live, world-wide, televised show who know the information just shared is wrong.  Time stands still.   Your blood pressure is rising, your heart rate has increased, the palms of your hands are suddenly sweaty, you’re feeling sick, your mouth is dry, your back and shoulder muscles are tense,  you’re beginning to tremble, you want to run to the bathroom.  Your fight, flight or freeze responses have all gone into hyper-drive.  This is stress.  This is anxiety.  The wrong people are showing up on stage, yes you did hear it right.  Years of  studying, training, hard graft, years of audit, M&A and leadership experience are thrown up in the air.  You look at the envelope in your hand and the envelope in Beatty’s hand and slowly your pre-frontal cortex starts to kick in; you’ve passed on the wrong information. You’ve given Beatty the wrong envelope.  And the western world is watching the resulting chaos in real-time.

10 hours later, you haven’t really slept.  You’ve helped craft the company statement, taken full responsibility, talked it over and over and over again.  In fact, you’ve re-lived and continue to re-live the process.  You are keenly aware that protocols were not followed fast enough, corrections not made quickly enough.  Beatty is talking to the press a-plenty; Dunaway has run-away  and does not seem to be taking any responsibility.   Your personal credibility and the company reputation is on the line.  Pictures of you tweeting back stage are all over the web.  You know, more than anyone, just how serious this is from a brand and reputation perspective.   The company is still standing by you and then,  the client, the AMPAS president, Cheryl Boone Issacs, tells the Associated Press  that you and  Ruiz have been fired and will not participate in future shows. You are shattered.

Just how does this statement and action affect the perception of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences?   I look up the Glass door reviews for AMPAS for some insight and based on the employee ratings and comments, this action is consistent with the current leadership culture.  Reading these unedited employee comments, it comes as no surprise that the President is now reviewing the entire relationship with PwC.   A much more powerful leadership stance could have been created by a statement along the lines of:

We accept PwCs apology for the grave error that was made during Sunday’s show and are working with them to learn from this and ensure this will not be repeated.  We respect our 83-year long relationship and look forward to working together to continuously improve the processes and procedures which make the OSCARS the annual best award celebration in our industry.

Just imagine what potential employees would think if they saw such a statement; how great talent would be attracted to a career in AMPAS, people who could see they could contribute and enhance the organisation.  Imagine how existing employees would feel to read this, how many more ideas and innovations and contributions would be put forward.   Instead, the opportunity is missed, the opinions of the existing employees are reinforced and the current culture is laid bare for the world to see.    Because, when you boil it down, no one died or was hurt in the process, perhaps with the exception of pride and ego.  And perhaps the person who is most diminished by this situation is AMPAS President, Cheryl Boone-Isaacs.

By shooting those who make the mistakes, the learnings are lost and the opportunity to build loyalty and respect are gone.   Trust is built in such moments.  Moments like these are where magic happens, where people move forward and perform at their best because they know they have support  and encouragement to learn and grow.

Satya  Nadella, Microsoft CEO, knows about building these moments,  of leading and engaging teams who are trying their very best.

A year ago Microsoft developed an AI Twitter bot by the name of Tay (officially, Tay.ai).  to communicate and learn from the millennial generation.  Very quickly this turned into a disastrous attempt to advance how artificial intelligence communicates with humans in real-time.  Hackers and others were able to transform Tay into a racist, profane-spewing cyber-bot and the results took Twitter by storm.  This had great potential to damage the Microsoft brand reputation.  But they acted quickly and in less than a day the programme was removed and an official apology was issued by Peter Lee – Corporate Vice President, Microsoft Research .  This was a great apology.  Perhaps a little over long but it clearly explained this was cutting edge, innovative work and they were going to take their experiences and build on their lessons learned.

So now imagine you are one of the Tay team, you’ve worked years on this, giving up evenings and weekends with loved ones because this is a genuinely exciting, cutting edge project.  You really believed in the opportunity, you know that a similar programme in China,  the XiaoIce chatbot is being  enjoyed by some 40 million people so you are devastated when Tay is hacked and her potential is destroyed. And you’re really upset that she has not worked the way you hoped and may have caused some people great distress.   Then you get an email from your CEO and it says ,

“Keep pushing, and know that I am with you … (The) key is to keep learning and improving.”

Wow!  How amazing!  So what are you going to do next?  How can you take what you’ve learned from working on Tay, and what subsequently happened to her  and create something better, even more exciting and more life changing?

Perhaps if we purposefully choose to not operate in a culture of fear, blame and litigation, and chose instead to work with companies   where we  acknowledge and learn from mistakes, or potential mistakes, without fear, blame or recrimination;  organisations where it’s regarded as the norm to co-create concepts and ideas with others without being undermined or threatened;  places where we really listen to and give learning feedback to others so we all develop and grow,  perhaps then we create lasting extraordinary opportunities and a better place for all.

Image: Flickr user Ed Schipul
 
General Musings, Metaphors and Stories

Hopelessly devoted 

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Cleaning out a bathroom cupboard I come across a brown faux leather deep purse with a metal clasp which gives a satisfying clunk when I open it.  Inside are at least 50 small metal curling hair grips.
These contraptions were how the ladies in the 30’s and 40’s achieved curls and ringlets in their hair.  You grasp small sections of hair in the metal grip in the middle, twist it round until you reach your scalp and close the attached metal clasp over so it’s kept firmly in place.   You then sleep with a head full of these and in the morning uncurl your  hair and look like Mae West or Sophia Loren.  At least this is the theory,   I found these chunks of metal impossible to sleep in and my best ever result was more Lena Zaveroni than Shirley Temple. 

But my Nana wore these in her hair every day that I remember. Catching her curls in her hair net, she would look neat and respectable, no matter the vagaries of the inclement Scottish weather.  I hold the dull metal pins in my hand and smile.  These are in my ‘keeping’ pile.  I don’t need them to remember her for she is in me, but it’s lovely to have them as a reminder of the torture she inflicted on herself to be feminine and attractive for my Papa.

They were together for over 60 years and in all the time I spent with them there was rarely a cross word.  And we spent quite a bit of time with them.   As soon as the school bell went signifying summer holidays, my sister and I were in the car for the 8 hour drive south where we would spend the entire holidays in the company of Nana and Papa while my parents scooted homewards as quickly as they could.  I loved these long summer holidays.  Largs had Nardinis’ ice cream and seemed more vibrant and cosmopolitan than Wick and from here we were off on trains and buses to ‘exotic’ destinations such as Eyemouth and Blackpool.  My grandparents had very little but they scrimped and saved to give us children memorable holidays and loads of love and attention.  Much of who I am today came from what I learned from and observed of them.

Yet, like all of us, they had their foibles.  Into their one bedroom flat with the creaky floorboards and tiny bathroom, they crammed as much of their furniture as they could when they downsized from their 3 bedroom house.   Stuffed  into every cupboard, nook and cranny, was wool and knitting needles and bits of paper,  card and string and jam-jars full of bits of broken but still useful plastic or metal objects.  Theirs was the ‘make do and mend’ mentality so typical of their generation and they  hoarded as if there was going to be another war, so the mound of items only increased with advancing years.  However great the growing melee of stuff, they both  were scrupulous about cleanliness and  their approximation of tidiness which was hampered somewhat by the amount of heavy wood furniture gathered in such a small space.  The illusion of any room to move was also impacted by Nana’s decision to cover her floors in brown and tan flecked carpet so you were never sure where the heavy dark furniture ended and the carpet began.  She also liked her heavy tan and taupe settee suite.  “It’s easy to clean” she would say, moving one of the several sheepskin rugs and brown blankets off it to give it a daily brush down.  “Brown is a practical colour” she would tell me.  I would nod my head, mute.  I was not expected to proffer any opinion but to silently agree.

As a child, I never noticed the clutter, as an adult I sigh but my focus is always on them and their well being.  It becomes more and more obvious that every visit could be a last and Nana is fast declining so I spend as much time as I can in Largs, tending to the geraniums that fill the windowsills and listening to her stories, again.  I am fast asleep on the sofa bed the morning that the congratulatory telegraph from the Queen arrives. 60 years married deserves such an honour and Nana bursts into the living room with such vigour that I immediately  leap out of bed, tense and alert.  “It’s come, it’s come” she shouts, her voice restored to that of earlier years.  In her hand is the opened envelope which is being waved about like a valedictory flag.  It’s as if she is  a young girl again, her eyes are shining bright and  the metal curlers are being dislodged as she tosses her head.  She is more excited and more free than I have ever seen.   I guide her to her chair and as she catches her breath, the adrenalin leaves her body, her age creeping back on in waves.    I cuddle the now skinny frame as hard as I dare, trying to not let go, willing her more life, more time.

Of course,  not long after, she passes, and during the mourning period my Mother sits with my Papa and offers to  redecorate the flat. Papa sits silently for a while. 60 years of love and devotion,  of recognising that the house is Nana’s domain, are now gone.  These decisions are now his and his alone. And with the air of a confessional supplicant he leans over and quietly asks ” Can we change everything to blue? I’ve always hated the colour brown”!

Engaging people, General Musings, Metaphors and Stories

News troll.

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So here we are.  Donald Trump being inaugurated as the 45th President of the United States and Prime Minister, Teresa May, and a number of her cabinet colleagues, noising up the Europeans ahead of triggering article 50 and the start of the procedure to exit England out of the European Union.  (I think the Scots will rebel and will pitch to leave the United Kingdom.  Derek Batemans recent blog on this is worth a read).

In the space of eight months a shift has happened.  There appears to  be a move away from the status quo, a desire for change, a harking back to the past not the future. image courtesy of we-heart.com

Image courtesy of we-heart.com 

Few saw this coming;  the experts and the pollsters predicted incorrectly.  When the results of June 24 and November 9 poured in, many sat in disbelief and shock.  Discrediting experts started in the Brexit campaign and Trump has extended this to calling all media who criticise or challenge his thoughts or position as being ‘Fake News’.

It would seem in today’s world that being an independent voice, an expert, is not a positive attribute.  When most of the Western world has access to the vastness of the internet, many are not afraid to share their thoughts, views and opinions using social media.     Who needs experts when it’s possible to do a Google search on almost every topic imaginable?  And there is little repercussion if we communicate inaccurate information or portray opinion as fact. And adding to this dangerous powder keg  of division and bile are those who seem to think they are wearing an invisibility cloak as they post their views – much of which they would never say in person.  With today’s need for 24/7 news, we have created a golden gift for the uninformed, or unscrupulous politicians and leaders.

Not for a while has Europe and  America been this divided, so riven with fear and confusion. The rise of the far right again in countries such as France, Austria, The Netherlands, Belgium and Italy is deeply concerning.  And in the USA, not since its inception has a completely unproven and more divisive candidate ever risen to the office of President of the United States.    And tried to use 140 characters to bend the truth, openly lay bare his character and demonstrate that his focus is not on leading the free world but on narcissistic and trivial issues such as just how many people turn up to watch his inauguration.

With experts disavowed and a temperamental impetuous President able to reach for his phone to communicate directly his uninformed opinions and thoughts, the world becomes a more dangerous place.  The apparent triumph of opinion over fact, of popularism over expertise, of lies over truth, of doubt over certainty, has grave potential to misinform and even worse encourage misogynistic, xenophobic and racist behaviour and action. Combined with the high profile of the new President of the United States, bawling “Fake News!” every time news reports prove and discredit his rhetoric  (which is likely to turn into a daily farce) it begins to generate a climate of fear and distrust, of questioning and mis-belief and confuses the real fake news which Putin has been playing with over the past decade.

Of course, there has been much scepticism about the Russian’s use of Kompromat, particularly when much has been lauded about a new era of Russian/American relations and their supposed support for Trump.  Make no mistake – they are masters of this new cold cyber war, planting fake information to encourage free world voters to vote in a particular way and to feed the myriad of ever hungry news media.  I’m not the only one who looked at the Facebook post which stated that Donald Trump had previously said;

“if I were to run, I’d run as a Republican. They’re the dumbest group of voters in the country. They believe anything on Fox News. I could lie and they’d still eat it up. I bet my numbers would be terrific.”

I didn’t re-post it; but I didn’t challenge it either.  Everything I’ve seen or heard about Trump made me think, he could have said this.  And this is one of the more tame examples.  An Ipsos poll recently conducted in the US found that 75% of American adults who were familiar with a fake news headline viewed the story as accurate.

The recent Buzzfeed leaked story about Russian “ladies” and Mr Trump was an interesting case in point.  Look at how the axis of the story turned, more column inches trying to discredit an ex MI6 officer known for his Russian intelligence expertise, rather than what this was saying about character and judgement of the then President elect; a very clever and effective piece of PR.  And for all of the denials coming out of the Kremlin, you only need to study Putin’s body language at the press conference held to deny the Kompromat allegations, to see a Master at play.

For valid and proven examples of just how much the Russians are investing in misinformation and propaganda, follow StopFake.org on Twitter and perhaps even donate.  Paying for well researched, corroborated and factual news reports may be one of the ways we can ensure we have a better version of truth in the years ahead. Let’s not be lulled into cosy comradeship ‘BS’ – the Russians are well schooled in this cyber-war.  And don’t get confused between this and Trump’s versions of ‘Fake News!’.  I believe they both want the same outcomes – to destabilise and discredit news reporting which challenges their actions and ideology.  To create fear and mistrust in established  organisations, in experts, so that when Putin or Trump are called to account over actions in places like Syria or the Middle East, they can manipulate or shout Fake News!  And the electorate, with doubt in their hearts, turn on each other.  But there the similarities end.  Trump is the amalgam of Billy Graham and Ian Paisley when they were spitting and spewing hell, fire and damnation from the pulpit.  Putin is the New Seekers crooning Kumbaya, lulling us into singing and swaying along.

But even valid news sources can be undermined by opinions of individual members of the general public.  Only last week the BBC trust upheld a complaint against Laura Kuenssberg, BBC’s  Political Editor,  for an interview she did with Jeremy Corben in which she had been accused  of inaccuracy.  And if you watch and read the reporting, this is a very tenuous complaint. I happen to really like her, she appears to operate from a place of great insight and integrity and is not afraid to call a spade a spade when necessary.  She’s been reporting on politics for many years and is widely regarded by her bosses as being “tough, influential, exceptional and hugely knowledgeable about Westminster politics”.  James Harding, BBC head of news,  made clear they support her completely and while respecting the Trust, they disagreed with this finding. However, it was disappointing that they did not report on this story more widely.  Democracy is not a linear process but it flourishes in climates of openness and trust.

It is easy to discredit experts and the media when we hear stories or reports that we don’t agree with, or dislike.  And while a cornerstone of democracy is that we each have the right to have our own beliefs,   to say and write what we think , and have the right to seek different sources of information and ideas,  we also all have a responsibility to share our expertise, knowledge and information appropriately, depending on our audience and their current knowledge and expectations.  And to use social media tools wisely.  Any fool can spout their thoughts, but a well-known, visible, powerful fool has a different level of accountability for the words they use.  Crafting a compelling but accurate narrative, appropriate to our audience, is the responsibility of any communicator.  For if we deliberately set out to mislead our audience, to create an environment where only our voice speaks the truth with no room for dissent or dialogue,  we are no better than the men of old; creating stories, and fear, by the casting of  stones.

 

For those curious about change